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What can the meaning be? “I love my Love, because I know

My Love loves me.”

O happy words! at Beauty's feet

We sing them ere our prime; And when the early summers pass,

And Care comes on with Time, Still be it ours, in Care's despite,

To join the chorus free “I love my Love, because I know

My Love loves me.”

For every white there is a black,

For every sweet a sour.
For every up there is a down,

For every folly, shame;
And retribution follows guilt,

As burning follows flame.
If wrong you do, if false you play,

In summer among the flowers,
You must atone, you

shall repay,
In winter among the showers.

YOUTH'S WARNING.

BEWARE, exulting youth, beware,

When life's young pleasures woo, That ere you yield you shrive your

heart, And keep your conscience true! For sake of silver spent to-day,

Why pledge to-morrow's gold?
Or in hot blood implant Remorse,

To grow when blood is cold?
If wrong you do, if false you play,

In summer among the flowers,
You must atone, you shall repay,

In winter among the showers. To turn the balances of Heaven

Surpasses mortal power;

I LAY IN SORROW, DEEP DIS

TRESSED.
I lay in sorrow, deep distressed :

My grief a proud man heard;
His looks were cold, he gave me gold,

But not a kindly word.
My sorrow passed, -I paid him back

The gold he gave to me;
Then stood erect and spoke my thanks,

And blessed his Charity.
I lay in want, in grief and pain :

A poor man passed my way;
He bound my head, he gave me bread,

He watched me night and day.
How shall I pay him back again,

For all he did to me?
Oh, gold is great, but greater far

Is heavenly Sympathy!

AUBREY THOMAS DE VERE.

1814(THIRD son of Sir Aubrey De Vere of Curragh Chase, Limerick Co. Born in 1814, and educated at Trinity College, Dublin, a poet and political writer; author of May Carols, The Sisters, Irish Odes, etc., besides numerous prose works on political subjects.] EARLY FRIENDSHIP.

Of life to noble ends, - whereon intent,

Asking to know for what man here is The half-seen memories of childish days,

sent, When pains and pleasures lightly came The bravest heart must often pause, and and went;

gaze; The sympathies of boyhood rashly spent The firm resolve to seek the chosen end In fearful wanderings through forbidden Of manhood's judgment, cautious and ways;

mature, The vague, but manly wish to tread the Each of these viewless bonds binds

friend to friend

maze

With strength no selfish purpose can

secure:

My happy lot is this, that all attend
That friendship which first came, and

which shall last endure.

He also doubtless suffers this love

pain; And she perhaps is sad, hearing his

sighing. And yet that face is not no sad as tender; Like some sweet singer's when her

sweetest strain From the heaved heart is gradually

dying!

SONG.

SING the old song, amid the sounds dispersing

SAD IS OUR YOUTH, FOR IT IS That burden treasured in your hearts

EVER GOING. too long; Sing it with voice low-breathed, Sad is our youth, for it is ever going, but never name her:

Crumbling away beneath our very feet; She will not hear you, in her turrets Sad is our life, for onward it is flowing nursing

In current unperceived, because so fleet; High thoughts, – too high to mate Sad are our hopes, for they were sweet with mortal song;

in sowing, Bend o'er her, gentle Heaven, but But tares, self-sown, have overtopped do not claim her!

the wheat;

Sad are our joys, for they were sweet in In twilight caves, and secret lonelinesses, blowing, She shades the bloom of her unearthly And still, O, still their dying breath is days;

sweet; The forest winds alone approach And sweet is youth, although it hath to woo her.

bereft us Far off we catch the dark gleam of her Of that which made our childhood tresses;

sweeter still; And wild birds haunt the wood-walks And sweet is middle life, for it hath left us where she strays,

A nearer good to cure an older ill; Intelligible music warbling to her. And sweet are all things, when we learn

to prize them, That spirit charged to follow and defend Not for their sake, but His who grants her,

them or denies them!

ROBERT NICOLL.

1814–1837. ,(Born in Perthshire, Scotland, 1814. Son of parents in humble circumstances, and self-educated. At the age of twenty-one he published a small volume of poems which became exceedingly popular and passed through several editions. He afterwards obtained the position of editor on the Leeds Times, which, under his control, more than tripled its circulation. His health gave way, after he had been engaged in his editorial duties about a year, and he removed to Edinburgh, where he died in 1837.)

WE ARE BRETHREN A'. A HAPPY bit hame this auld world would An’ ilk said to his neighbor, in cottage be,

an' ha', If men, when they're here, could make “Come, gi'e me your hand shift to agree,

brethren a'.'

we are

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(BORN at Enfield, Middlesex, England, Nov. 26, 1814. For twenty-five years a director of a railway company in Belgium; has been a frequent contributor of verse to the London Atheneum and Gentleman's Magazine; is author of several volumes of poems; Beads from a Rosary, 1843; The Burden of the Bell, and other Lyrics, 1850; Berries and Blossoms, 1855; Foxglove Bells, a Book of Sonnets, 1856; The Quest of the Sangreall, 1868; also of Bibliotheca Piscatoria, 1861; and The Chronicle of the Compleat Angler of Izaak Walton and Charles Cotton, being a bibliographical record of its various phases and mutations, editions and illustrations, 1864. LITTLE BELL.

Pretty maid, slow wandering this way, “He prayeth well, who loveth well

What's your name?” quoth he. Both man and bird and beast."

“What's your name ? O, stop and The Ancient Mariner.

straight unfold, PIPED the Blackbird, on the beechwood Pretty maid, with showery curls of gold." spray,

“ Little Bell," said she.

Little Bell sat down beneath the rocks, Down came Squirrel, eager for his fare, Tossed aside her gleaming, golden Down came bonny Blackbird, I declare; locks,

Little Bell gave each his honest share “Bonny bird !” quoth she,

Ah! the merry three ! “Sing me your best song, before I go." “ Here's the very finest song I know, Andthewhile those frolicplaymates twain Little Bell,” said he.

Piped and frisked from bough to bough

again, And the Blackbird piped --- you never ’Neath the morning skies, heard

In the little childish heart below, Half so gay a song from any bird;

All the sweetness seemed to grow and Full of quips and wiles,

grow, Now so round and rich, now soft and slow,

And shine out in happy overflow, All for love of that sweet face below,

From her brown, bright eyes. Dimpled o'er with smiles. And the while that bonny bird did pour

By her snow-white cot, at close of day,

Knelt sweet Bell, with folded palms, to His full heart out, freely, o'er and o’er, ’Neath the morning skies,

pray.

Very calm and clear
In the little childish heart below
All the sweetness seemed to grow and

Rose the praying voice, towhere, unseen,

In blue heaven, an angel-shape serene grow,

Paused awhile to hear.
And shine forth in happy overflow
From the brown, bright eyes.

“What good child is this,” the angel said, Down the dell she tripped, and through

“That, with happy heart, beside her bed, the glade

Prays so lovingly?” Peeped the squirrel from the hazel-shade, Low and soft, O, very low and soft, And from out the tree

Crooned the Blackbird in the orchard Swung and leaped and frolicked, void

croft, of fear,

“ Bell, dear Bell!” crooned he. While bold Blackbird piped, that all might hear,

“ Whom God's creatures love,” the angel “ Little Bell !” piped he.

Murmured, “God doth bless with angel's Little Bell sat down amid the fern:

care; “Squirrel, Squirrel ! to your task return! Child, thy bed shall be

Bring me nuts!” quoth she. Folded safe from harm; love, deep and Up, away! the frisky Squirrel hies,

kind, Golden wood-lights glancing in his eyes, Shall watch round and leave good gifts And adown the tree,

behind, Great ripe nuts, kissed brown by July sun,

Little Bell, for thee."
In the little lap drop, one by one —
Hark! how Blackbird pipes, to see the

fun!
Happy Bell!” pipes he.

UNDER MY WINDOW. Little Bell looked up and down the UNDER my window, under my window, glade:

All in the Midsummer weather, “Squirrel, Squirrel, from the nut-tree Three little girls with fluttering curls shade,

Flit to and fro together :Bonny Blackbird, if your're not afraid, There's Bell with her bonnet of satin Come and share with me!”

sheen,

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And Maud with her mantle of silver.

green, And Kate with her scarlet feather.

Stealing slow, on a hushed tiptoe,

I catch them all together :-
Bell with her bonnet of satin sheen,
And Maud with her mantle of silver

green,
And Kate with the scarlet feather.

Under my window, under my window,

Leaning stealthily over,
Merry and clear, the voice I hear,

Of each glad-hearted rover.
Ah! sly little Kate, she steals my roses;
And Maud and Bell twine wreaths and

posies,
As merry as bees in clover.
Under my window, under my window,

In the blue Midsummer weather,

Under my window, under my window,

And off through the orchard closes; While Maudshefouts, and Bell she pouts,

They scamper and drop their posies;
But dear little Kate takes naught amiss,
And leaps in my arms with a loving

kiss,
And I give her all my roses.

FREDERICK WILLIAM FABER.

1814-1863. (An English theologian and poet. Born at Durham, June 28, 1814; graduated at Oxford in 1836; became vicar of Elton in 1843; went over to the Roman Catholic Church in 1845; founded the oratory of the brotherhood of St. Philip Neri in London in 1849, and in 1854 removed with it to Brompton, where he died Sept. 26, 1863. He will be remembered as the author of some exquisitely beautiful hymns, equally admired by all communions.]

THE RIGHT MUST WIN. O, it is hard to work for God,

Far beyond reason's height, and reached To rise and take his part

Only by childlike love.
Upon this battle-field of earth,
And not sometimes lose heart !

Workman of God! O, lose not heart,

But learn what God is like; He hides himself so wondrously, And in the darkest battle-field As though there were no God;

Thou shalt know where to strike. He is least seen when all the powers Of ill are most abroad.

Thrice blest is he to whom is given

The instinct that can tell Or he deserts us at the hour

That God is on the field when he
The fight is all but lost;

Is most invisible.
And seems to leave us to ourselves
Just when we need him most.

Blest, too, is he who can divine

Where real right doth lie,
Ill masters good; good seems to change And dares to take the side that seems
To ill with greatest ease;

Wrong to man's blindfold eye.
And, worst of all, the good with good
Is at cross-purposes.

For right is right, since God is God;

And right the day must win; Ah! God is other than we think; To doubt would be disloyalty, His ways are far above,

To falter would be sin !

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